BG02B-Through Other Eyes
by VStarTraveler
Summary: A collection of one-shot stories told from the perspectives of other than main BSG characters. In Part 4, Retiring, a retirement party and celebration take a dark and dangerous turn.
1. Part 1: Awakenings

**BG02B—Through Other Eyes**  
by VStarTraveler

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _This is a collection of standalone one-shot Battlestar Galactica stories told from the perspectives of other than main characters. The summary for each one-shot story will be presented at the beginning of that story._

 ** _Disclaimer:_**

 _This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of the world of Battlestar Galactica is entirely my own, and Battlestar Galactica and all of its various components remain the property of their respective owners._

* * *

 **Part 1: Awakenings**

 _ **Summary for Part 1:**_

 _Awaking in Doctor Wilker's lab leads to strange insights with unexpected results. A dark comedy._

 _Part 1 is my entry in The Room forum's May Writing Challenge - PROMPTAPALOOZA! as Challenge 2: Through a Looking Glass._

* * *

The tall, thin Warrior with blonde hair was pushing the cart with the stockier, frowning man following.

"'Bean, this is the silliest idea I've ever heard. We're trying to kill the tinheads that are doing their best to wipe us out and we're doing this? Crazy!"

Greenbean grinned, though he was half in agreement. "Hey, Captain Apollo and Doc Wilker asked me to do it."

They left the cart in Wilker's lab with his thanks. He was taking a look as they walked out with Giles still shaking his head.

~BSG~

 _Almost 2 yahrens later:_

Light slowly coalesced into solid though strange forms. He was clearly not where he expected to be.

The accompanying sound was even more alien. Analyzing, he detected vibrating high tension wires and air passing through assorted air pressure relief devices in alternating patterns. This was accompanied by a high-pitched human voice that sounded as if it was experiencing a relatively mild interrogation on the homeworld. Well, maybe not so mild. The screeching continued in undulating patterns that seemed to include actual Colonial words conveying a message about some concept called love. A quick check of the database showed that the word did not compute. After listening for a few microns, he found that the words were essentially meaningless, but the resulting sound was actually relatively unobjectionable. As he did, he suddenly sensed that his hand was malfunctioning, so he grasped it with his other hand to stop the unnatural tapping that seemed to accompany the beat of the tumult.

"Ah, movement! Good!"

He turned slightly to see a human, a type of creature he had always hated and hunted, as it sat down in front of him. It had a strange band strapped around its head with a light shining directly into his roving sensor. As the light slipped and the being adjusted it, he was intrigued, not understanding why the human didn't just bolt the light to its head. The man adjusted the input and said, "Excellent!"

He felt strangely pleased at this response. Still, from a lifetime spanning several hundred yahrens of training and battle, he knew it was his duty to reach out and break this vile creature, but when it said, "Now look to the left, please," he was surprised to find himself complying unquestioningly. "Raise your right arm" and then the left got similar responses.

Looking around the room, he saw a variety of things that could be used as weapons. There was a wrench that he could use to...to tighten a connector. Then, there was a tank mounted on the wall that could easily be used to...put out a fire.

Shears! Of course! He would use the shears to...remove the top...of a paper from the bottom half. A broomstick...he could use for cleaning. Then, he saw a wire that could be used to coil around...and around to produce an electromagnet. So many options, but so few, too.

With each successive impulse and the following reaction, the silver centurion became increasingly aware that something absolutely horrible had happened to him. His purpose was to...spread happiness throughout the sector. No! This couldn't be right. Next he would want to...pick pollen-bearing reproductive structures of vegetative organisms while...running in meadows...cavorting with small furry animals and wooly ovines.

"I'm Doctor Wilker," said the human, "and I'm here to help us both."

A quick datacheck revealed that a "doctor" was a repair technician required by the fragile humans. Perhaps this one could help him.

"Doctor, I appear to be damaged. My natural programming is being overrun by strange subroutines. I have a great desire to...hug you."

"Ahem, that's not necessary, but let me explain. You were destroyed in combat, but I have retrieved and modified your datachip and placed it in a repaired body."

Checking primary assemblies revealed serial numbers from several different centurions. The only part that was truly his own was the datachip. "You have restored me to life? That is not allowed in Cylon society. When usable parts remain, datachips are wiped and all parts are recycled. Why do you do this?"

"I may be crazy but I dream of hope for peace between our peoples in the future, so I'm seeking ways our cultures can learn to interact peacefully. Somehow, if we can adjust Cylon programming just a little..."

Deep in his being, alarms sounded at the utter foolishness that the doctor was spouting, but the Cylon felt oddly constrained. He sensed the heat of a strange feeling—emotion?—building within him, but could do nothing to end his rising futility. "Doctor, that is...not...possible, and now you have made me alien to my own people." Searching the database, he droned, "A pariah, a monster."

His scanner continued to search for something, anything, that he could use: a probe, a chair, a paperclip. After several such tries, he conceded the impossible: he could not harm the human. The resulting strange feeling that he now believed was actually anger was white hot within him. Suddenly, with the fire burning, he found himself free of the mental restraints and his hands darted forward to encircle the human's neck. Before reaching the man, however, he crumpled sideways, still and unmoving.

With smoke coming from the Cylon's cowl, Wilker opened the access hatch and saw the melted datachip. He gingerly removed it, cleaning the smoky residue from the dataport. Sadly, he opened a drawer and placed the destroyed chip inside in a small box containing eleven similarly melted bits. After recording his results, he pulled out another fresh chip, looked at it hopefully, and placed it in his isolated programming station. He was already thinking of other modifications he could make while trying to avoid the questions that haunted him: _Is dreaming of peace really such a strange concept?_ And more importantly, _Is it the creature or the creator that is the true monster?_

Putting those thoughts out of his mind, he wondered if maybe thirteen would be his lucky number.

 _The End_


	2. Part 2: Liberation

**Part 2: Liberation**

 _ **Summary for Part 2:**_

 _When the Cylons destroyed the Colonial homeworlds, not everyone made it to the ships of the Rag-Tag Fleet. A soldier involved in the liberation of Caprica finds a message. A dark comedy._

 _Part 2 of the "Through Other Eyes" collection is my story for the Caesar's Palace June 2018 Worth a Thousand Words event. The prompt will be revealed in the author's note after the story. For those unfamiliar with the BSG lexicon, microns are approximately equal to seconds, centars are roughly equal to hours, and a cycle is a standard Colonial day. A yahren can be equated to a year, and a millennium is 1,000 yahrens. Caprica was the largest of the twelve Colonies, the homewords of the humans, and was the seat of the capital of the Colonial government.  
_

 _Please note that, due to events in the story, there are four paragraphs near the end with very deliberate (and increasingly obvious) spelling errors. I believe the context should still be understandable despite the errors.  
_

* * *

 _The town of Rondellian, Caprica  
739.47 Caprican cycles after the start of The Liberation_

With the correct adapter in place and the cord connected, the portable power pack brought the computer sputtering to life in a few microns. The equipment had degraded due to age and the dusty environment; the screen slowly brightened but unsteady lines flickered as words became visible. The soldier in the Army of the Liberation focused on the screen, taking in the message.

~BSG~

 _I pray to the Lords that someday someone will find this and understand. I will be dead by then, but I hope my words will be remembered and will be taken to heart._

 _We didn't want this.  
_

 _When our ancestors went to war approximately a millennium ago, we were taught that they did it out of a sense of moral obligation to help a weaker people faced with the possibility of annihilation by a stronger race. Our presence in the conflict supposedly protected those people for a while but, eventually, they were all destroyed despite our help._

 _There's an old saying that history repeats itself. We should have remembered that._

 _The war went on between our peoples in the far regions of space that separated our systems. As a result, we thought our homes—and, indeed, our home planets—were safe, as they were for almost a thousand yahrens. Perhaps that had been their plan all along, to lull us into that false sense of security. After all, humans age, we reproduce, and we pass on. The Cylons? Well, we're not sure what robots do, but they exist, possibly for hundreds or even thousands of yahrens. They can focus on the long term and probably still be around to see it happen.  
_

 _Everyone e_ _ventually_ _gets tired of war, so we were excited about the promise of peace. From what we heard, they were excited about it, too, but for a different reason. They knew the truth._

 _We didn't expect this either._

 _When the attack came, we thought it was a mistake, at least we did until it continued, going on and on. When the first round was over, our defenses, our infrastructure, and our cities were in ruins. Some of us in the smaller towns and the country, and perhaps even some in the cities, survived, but none of the things that made those places our home did. There was a call that went out from Commander Adama of the Battlestar Galactica and some people supposedly escaped in ships to the stars as a result. However, most think that was an attempt to give hope to the children. Most adults know better than to believe such fairy tales._

 _When it was finally over, most of us survivors believed we'd made it. We would go on in a new way in which we would no longer be a threat to our enemy. We survivors would sue for peace and they would have no reason to continue to battle against us. That belief in itself proves how little we knew of them despite the fact that they'd already shown their true colors all those yahrens before. They weren't content to let us live when we were no longer a threat to them. No, nothing but annihilation of our species would do._

 _Some few people understood that. They took to the hills and mountains, carrying what they could with plans of taking the war to the Cylon invaders. They had great plans to liberate our world, despite the fact that there were so few of them and their resources were so limited._

 _With no power and our town hospital destroyed, I was at the little clinic I'd set up to try to treat survivors when the dust cloud came. They released it over our town and I heard that others saw a similar cloud in another nearby village. I don't know for sure, but I suspect the dust went far beyond our little corner of Caprica. Perhaps it didn't extend into the hills and mountains where the so-called freedom fighters went. Or maybe it did. Truthfully, we don't know and those of us here never will.  
_

 _Several centars have passrd since I recorded those last lines and now my eyes grow dm and my breth is labord._

 _People started getting sck just a few centrs after rhe dust cloud. My heart told me it couldn't be but my mnd and my medical books told me that it was indeef some type of radiation poisoning. The first people died wifhin a cycle. More followed and my clinic closed because I could no longer help those who xo despertely needed it. It closed because I could no longet help myslf._

 _Now, my time, too, is limitef. I barely made it into ths chair and eacj keysteoke is nw agny to me. Ig someon finds this record at som point in the furure, i hope this will help explain wht happened heer so they will learn from our mistaker._

 _As for the frewdom fighers an d tose who suppsedly took to the st rs, if that be true, may the L rds be wit themmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..._

~BSG~

The reader looked down at the writer's now skeletal hands that still rested on the keyboard. Dried ligaments, tendons, and bits of desiccated flesh clung to the bones, holding them tenuously together with the contorted and decayed body sitting in the chair that was pulled tight to the desk.

A sound drew the Liberation fighter's attention. Another such as itself, except clad in gold rather than its own silver, entered the room and said with a mechanical drone, "Centurion, report."

Turning to its superior, the silver centurion of the Army of the Liberation replied in the exact same manner. "There is nothing of importance here."

"Understood. Execute Protocol Caprica Liberation One then continue the search."

The silver centurion intoned, "By your command."

With the gold officer gone, the silver Cylon felt nothing as it took its hand and swept the skeletal remains on the keyboard and in the chair to the side, where they fell to the floor with a clatter. Bones scattered across that floor when the dried ligaments, which had been ever so precariously holding them together, disintegrated.

Light from the flickering monitor reflected off of its shiny silver armor as it reached out and disconnected the cable to the computer from the portable power pack. The words on the screen faded and soon disappeared as if they had never been there.

Bringing its rifle up, a single round smashed into the now dead computer, exploding and causing a small fire. The fire was unimportant, though, as the centurion detached a small box from its utility belt. Placing it in the middle of the home, the centurion pushed a button and then flipped a single switch. It then walked directly out of the house.

Fifteen microns after the box had been activated, there was a bright light immediately followed by a small thunderclap inside the home. It collapsed in on itself and was soon fully engulfed in flames. Smoke billowed out, just like all of those down the street to the centurion's left.

Looking to the right, the centurion saw more homes in a row waiting their turn to join the others in destruction. While Cylon Command had long claimed that organized opposition had been eliminated in the Colonial homewords, there was still much to be done to eliminate all vestiges of the former human infestation. The centurion turned to the right and moved forward to continue helping to do its part with the liberation of Caprica.

 _The End_

~BSG~

 _ **Author's Note:** Thank you for reading this story. I hope you enjoyed the dark twist near the end. If so, please consider letting me know with your review, follow, or favorite. Thanks!_

 _The prompt for this story was a picture of a pair of skeletal hands on a keyboard._


	3. Part 3: Hard Times

**Part 3: Hard Times**

 ** _Summary for Part 3:_**

 _The Colonial peoples went through some very difficult times. A survivor records memories of the events of the Cylon attack, the subsequent exodus, and the difficulties she experienced. A dark comedy._

 _Part 3 of the "Through Other Eyes" collection is my entry in the Caesar's Palace July 2018 Monthly Oneshot Contest. The prompt will be revealed in the author's note after the story. A yahren in the story is roughly equivalent to an Earth year, and a centar is about an hour.  
_

* * *

It was supposed to be the start of a wonderful holiday, but I decided to postpone the departure. My things were packed, of course, but I wanted to watch the celebration. After all, a thousand-yahren war doesn't come to an end but once and anyone who survives it is going to remember what they were doing when it ended.

The more I thought of that fact, the less I liked the idea of remembering the event just sitting on a transport while others were gathered to celebrate in the new Peace Park in Caprica City or the other such locations on our Colony or any of the lesser Colonies. I could have arranged for a ticket to the Park but the thought of being overwhelmed by the throng of noisy revelers just didn't appeal to me either. It might have been nice celebration but getting there would have been a hassle, getting through the crowds would have been worse, and then getting home at a reasonable time to get enough sleep before my delayed departure would have been horrible. My younger self might have done it without a thought, but at my present age, all of those things factor into my decisions.

Therefore, I decided to open a bottle of my best pink ambrosa and enjoy the celebration from the comfort of my own home. My daggits seemed to love the thought of spending one last night with their Momma, too, before I departed, so we curled up together on my sofa in front of the big vid screen.

That female reporter with the outstanding bone structure, the one who was to be Adama's daughter-in-law, however briefly, came on and gave a glowing, hopeful report of what was to come, but my thoughts were on Adar. One of my cousins (significantly older cousin, I might add) knew him when they were in school. Many yahrens later, when he started moving up in the worlds, she quietly told me that Adar never had been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but that he knew all of the forks, made it with most of the spoons (including, I suspect, her), and personally held markers for most all of them. Therefore, when he needed help, he got it and was able to move up as a result. Still, I wondered about how Adar, even with Count Balter's help, had been able to pull this treaty off. Perhaps, I thought, he had as much leverage in the Cylon government as he did in our own. Whatever the case, I hoped it would be as successful as he promised.

Maybe Poodakins picked up on something in the air or heard something on the vid broadcast, but she started whining and then both daggits were outright howling just before the attack began on the screen. Tears filled my eyes and my cries were soon joining those of my snookums. I saw madness, devastation, destruction on the screen that made me realize that Adar had finally met a much, much sharper blade.

The attacks weren't just confined to the damnably named park. The vid monitor was still displaying the horrid images when both of my babies started running circles for a few moments, barking, whining, and howling uncontrollably before running out on the veranda and into the gardens. I cried for them to come back and chased after them for a moment, but then I heard the noises in the distance. Fearful for my own safety, I went back inside to see the vid screen still displaying the horrors of the attack. It was then that the broadcast ended abruptly, just as the sounds of nearby explosions and laser fire filled the air. I never saw my sweet babies again.

It was about that time that Kristis and Monare came running into the room, both crying hysterically but intent on being sure of my safety. In hindsight, I have to laugh at the thought since they had no way of ensuring anything. In fact, I soon had to give them directions on what to do. Since it was possible my house might be a target, we rushed to the basement vault and spent the night listening to the near-constant explosions in the distance.

It was a sad and horrible night as we knew each explosion signaled the death of more of our people but we almost celebrated each such explosion for being elsewhere rather than centered on my home and being the end of us.

When it was over, we had no idea of the extent and widespread nature of the devastation, but we knew it must be bad. The waiting went on, hopelessly, centar after centar, with the pressure building until Adama, that dear, sweet man, was finally able to broadcast an emergency message. In the midst of all of the death and destruction and the realization that our lives (for those of us who had survived) would never be the same, that message gave us at least a bit of much needed hope.

I tried to contact our Colonial government, a number of friends, and a repair service to come fix the bit of damage that my property had sustained, but regular comm systems were down, so I decided to do exactly what Adama said. After all, I'd had a thing for the man before that Ila-witch won out and they took the seal, so I already trusted him completely despite his poor judgment in that particular case. If anyone knew what to do, it would be he. Therefore, my shuttle, already packed for my holiday, was quickly restocked with everything else it could fit. I locked my home in hopes of returning someday, but even then, I had doubts that would ever happen.

We launched as quickly as possible and joined the fleet several centars before Adama's deadline. I brought Monare and Kristis with me, but my other servants who weren't accompanying me on my holiday had left early for holidays of their own. They were nowhere to be seen, then or since. Guess that will teach them.

The Fleet people tried to stick me on some dinky, dingy little ship, but I demanded my rights and was soon settling in on the Rising Star. My quarters were still smaller than I wished, but I figured they were the best available under the circumstances.

~BSG~

"Siress? I'm sorry to interrupt you, Madame, but a Colonial Warrior is outside to see you. Something about needing your energizer—"

"Pshhaw! My energizer? Tell him it's not available and to go away," replied Siress Belloby.

"But, Siress, he insists that it is very important."

"Everything is important to Colonial Warriors. Tell him 'No.'"

Keeping from being seen, Belloby listened carefully to the conversation that followed and then smiled as she considered the implications. If it was truly important, Commander Adama himself would contact her on the comm. Better yet, maybe he would come in person! Oh, that would be sweet! It had been many yahrens, but with that Ila gone, perhaps she would finally find her way into his arms.

With Monare dealing with the Warrior, she picked up her journal, but with her heart racing and a big smile covering her face, Belloby held it for a few moments as she thought. _Adama! Finally! Perhaps this trip won't be so bad after all._

Flipping the journal open once more, she added a few more lines:

Times have been hard since the Cylon attack, but I have hope for the future. While this isn't home, it will do for now, until we can find a new planet to settle or reach Adama's Thirteenth Colony, if it actually exists. Either way, it is great to be alive after all that has happened. Yes, it will take a little while but we'll soon have things back in order. Then, just maybe we'll be able to put all this mess behind us and I'll finally be able to find some decent new servants.

 _The End_

~BSG~

 ** _Author's Note:_** _Thank you for reading this story. Please consider letting me know your thoughts on the story with your reviews, follows, or, if deserving, favorites. Thanks!_

 _This story ties in as an introduction to the episode "The Magnificent Warriors." That wasn't one of my favorite episodes, but Siress Belloby, played by Match Game's incomparable Brett Somers, was a really fun character who, having the energizer that Adama so desperately needed, took advantage of the situation to throw herself at him through most of the episode._

 _Finally, as promised, the prompt for this story was a couple of lines of Robert Browning's "Confessions:"_

 _How sad and bad and mad it was—  
But then, how it was sweet!_


	4. Part 4: Retiring

**Part 4: Retiring**

 ** _Summary for Part 4:_**

 _A retirement party and celebration take a dark and dangerous turn. Sci-fi/angst.  
_

 _Part 4 of the "Through Other Eyes" collection is my entry in The Room Forum's Promptapalooza Redux Challenge 5. The prompt will be revealed in the author's note after the story. A yahren in the story is roughly equivalent to an Earth year, a sectar is about a month, a secton is about a week, a cycle is about a day, and a centar is about an hour. A furlon is the Colonial term for a furlough or vacation._

 _Disclaimer is the same as before._

* * *

With a cacophony of sounds behind her, she tried to tune it all out as she stood looking at what lay before her.

A finger run across the top of the seat confirmed that it was covered in dust; no one had sat in it for a very long time. The controls looked old and the padding on one of the handles was cracked, with part missing. Another was bound with tape, but one on the left looked practically new in comparison.

Shaking her head, she clambered around and sat lightly in the seat. Puffs of air from cracks in the seat covering blew dust into the air. She coughed several times as it dissipated before she took a good look at her surroundings.

"What in the worlds?"

Rows of gauges filling the panels before her had captured her gaze. Practically all were old—no, make that, ancient—needle and dial-style indicators, but a few flipdown-style readouts were interspersed among them and a couple of modern digital gauges stood out like discordant beacons.

"This is... _crazy_ ," she whispered to herself before realizing that no one else would be able to hear her over the noise anyway.

She'd never seen so many needle and dial-style gauges in one place in other than museums so she looked at several in turn, trying to determine their function and how to even read a couple of them. A few didn't have any identification or markings at all, but most had a narrow band of evenly-spaced marks and numbers spanned part or all of their circumference. The needle, similar to a hand on an ancient clock, was generally set to zero at the center or pegged to the left or right outside the field of markings.

Several others, in turn, caught her view. The dura-glass cover on one was cracked in a crawlon web-type pattern.

 _If it even is the modern safety glass,_ she thought to herself _. As old as this heap is…_

Another was completely broken, with part of the glass missing, and yet another was entirely gone.

 _No, there are actually a few small pieces of glass in the bottom of—oh my Lords! What is that?_

Her mind was racing as she caught sight of what appeared to be a whittled matchstick set over the center peg in another gauge without a cover. This was the last straw.

 _This really is nuts. That thing is off into its own little world—it's not centered on anything! How could anyone expect this deathtrap to fly? That guy out front? What in the worlds is he thinking?_

It was then that she saw the spot where the starter control would be on modern ships.

 _Those built in the last millennia or two, anyway._

Instead of the starter control she was expecting, there was a small, empty opening with several different colored wires sticking out.

 _If it will even start. Who would own such a disaster? And then risk lives other than their own in it?_

 _Lords! Help us. Please. We're going to need it._

Taking a breath to settle her nerves, she thought, _Now, where is that thing?_

~BSG~

 _Some time earlier:_

"To retirement!"

With drinks raised, the group of girlfriends toasted, "Retirement!"

One the young ladies asked, "So, Dete, what do you plan to do now that you're out?"

The guest of honor shook her head. "Officially, the brass has me on furlon from the _Atlantia—_ may I never have to set foot on that ship again!—for a few more cycles before my separation is official, before I'm retired. Praise the Lords!"

Several of the young ladies echoed, "Praise the Lords!"

"Hey, a few cycles will be over in no time! If we get drunk enough at the celebration tonight, you might not even have to sober up before you're out."

She laughed. "Sorry, Hadria, but I don't get _that_ drunk—"

Friendly boos and heckling briefly interrupted her over her intransigence, but she continued, "Besides, I'll be in the reserves and subject to call-up for four yahrens after that."

"Dete, they almost never use that clause on anyone. At least not on Taura. You have to be like a big-time officer or some big-wig in intelligence to get called back up," said Jillial, the only non-Caprican in the group.

"Lords know I'm not either of those, Jilli, so I hope you're right. I can't wait to get out and start living! Military life is okay, but there are just too many restrictions. And that they'll let us fly ships and shuttles but not Vipers—oh, that's what really chaps my astrum."

"Tell it, sister!" encouraged Lydia. "That's why I left the Colonial service last yahren. You'll love the private sector, though, and we'll love having you here in the city with us."

Deitra sighed. "I really wanted it, you know. I've put in the request for transfer to the Warrior Corps three times but they bounce it back each time because my chromosomes don't meet their expectations for Warriors."

Hadria was nodding. "My second transfer request came back as 'disapproved' a couple of sectars ago. No explanation, of course, other than 'Doesn't meet qualifications.' Bastards! If they'd put chromosomes and plumbing aside, a woman in charge of this blasted war would have either won it or made peace a long, long time ago!"

Glasses clinked in a quick toast to "Women!"

"Dete, you never did say—what do you have lined up for your post-retirement career? I've got another eight sectars and I want to be able to follow your footsteps. Assuming," added Vivia, "that they're interesting footsteps. With cute guys around."

Deitra shook her head. "Vivia, cute guys swarm to you like blackflies to felgercarb. I figured you'd have one or two on your arms tonight."

"That's later at the celebration. Right now, this is your party. So, what's your plan?"

Deitra smiled. "I'm going to be the first officer on a transport ship. I should be a captain within five yahrens and, with some success, I'll own my own ship in ten."

"To success!" came the response from one of the friends, followed by the clinking of glasses and a chorus of "Success!"

"Hey, look at the time! We better get going if we're going to find a good viewing spot at the Peace Park."

~BSG~

There were gasps of surprise later that evening when the first Raider appeared over the Peace Park. No one was expecting the Cylons to participate in the gala celebration, nor did anyone expect the laser blasts or bombs as those first Raiders unleashed their fury and many more started dropping out of the sky on the unsuspecting city.

There were stampedes as people tried to flee, but blasts and bombs and bodies flying through the air added to the chaos. Deitra was separated from her friends and then a blow to the back of her head sent her descending into darkness.

She awoke some time later to cries and moans and the flickering of flames. There was a woman lying on top of her; when she told the woman to get off of her, it took a few moments before she realized the woman wouldn't be moving on her own ever again. She struggled to move the body from atop her, only to find that it, too, was trapped under another.

"Help me! Please help me!" she called as she attempted to wiggle out from under the bodies.

No help had come by the time she finally escaped from the tangle. There were people staggering about, as if in a daze, calling out to loved-ones who didn't, or couldn't, answer. In the distance, she saw emergency medical personnel assisting some of the wounded; some of the dead were tagged and left where they lay since there was no way to remove them. There were no tags for far too many others.

She searched for her friends for a while but found none of them, so she said a quick prayer that they were somewhere safe. She was continuing to look when she saw someone pulling a body behind him. "Excuse me? What happened? Why did the Cylons attack the Peace Celebration?"

"It's what they do," responded the old man pulling an old woman who appeared to be about his age. "It's what they've always done, but our leaders forgot and they attacked. Everywhere. Everyone. There's nothing left."

Tears filled her eyes as she realized it was much worse than a mistake. "What's happening now?"

"I don't know. Somebody said there was a call for an evacuation of the planet, but I'm taking my sealmate home. She'd want to be buried in our garden. We've been together for 72 yahrens and I'm not going to leave—"

Deitra, on seeing a Colonial Military officer, fell behind the man and couldn't hear his continued droning. She moved toward the officer, stepping through the mass of bodies, as he called out to someone.

"Lieutenant? I'm Lieutenant, 2nd Class, Deitra, on separation furlon from the Battlestar _Atlantia_. What's happening, Sir?"

The officer, a few yahrens older than Deitra, had tears on his face. "I lost my girlfriend in the attack and can't—sorry, you mean the situation. Devastation, Lieutenant, everywhere, but other than that, I don't know. You need to get to your military post and get your orders."

"But I'm on track for retirement, Sir. I don't have a post or an assignment. I have a job lined up in the private sector."

"And I was going to ask my girlfriend to take the Seal with me after the treaty was signed, but it doesn't look like either of us will get what we want." His voice was low and unsteady as he continued. " Reality, I'm afraid, is far more real than expectations. Hope is all that's left, and there's precious little of that." Turning away from her, he called, "Lena! LE-NA! Can you hear me?"

~BSG~

An officer at a makeshift evacuation post had confirmed that the Colonies were in ruins and were being evacuated. "Don't know how long it will be before the Cylons get back, so we're doing what we can. As for orders, I don't have anything for—wait!"

The woman looked down at a panel that was being used as a makeshift table. There were notes scribbled on papers in a semblance of order. "Here! A guy was here a little while ago looking for a co-pilot for a shuttle. He's helping evac his neighborhood. You think you could cover Second Seat?"

Throughout the walk, Deitra fought, and sometimes lost, the battle with her tears. Destruction was everywhere; dead bodies lay in the debris-filled streets. Groups of people, many of whom were injured, moved about aimlessly, not sure what to do or where to go. Others went by quickly, as if desperate to get somewhere, though there seemed to be no common destination.

Deitra wondered about her friends and prayed that they were safe and had found refuge. This set off a new round of tears. For the first time ever, she was almost glad her mother was no longer alive to have to suffer through what she was seeing.

When she got close to her assigned location, she dried her face and steeled herself for what she had to do. She was a member of the Colonial Military and she had to act like it. She refused to let her own struggles and fears affect the civilians she was hoping to help.

On arriving, she was walked up to a personnel door near a very large pair of doors in what appeared to be an old warehouse. It had been badly damaged in the attacks, but the part with the big doors was still standing. As she stepped through the smaller door, she saw a large crowd of people, a launch track to the right of them, and a large, old shuttlecraft at the end of the track behind them. As she looked at the ship, she was surprised that, in all of her studies at the Academy and in flight school, she'd never seen one like it.

She worked her way forward through the crowd to where a man with a clipboard was standing in front of the ramp to the old ship. Now that she was closer, she saw that the protective shielding was worn or missing in places, paint was flaking or even missing from some of the parts that should have had it, and the whole ship was covered in what looked like a thick layer of dust.

"Excuse me? I was told you were looking for someone to fly Second Seat."

"Praise the Lords!" called the man, who looked to be in his 50s or 60s.

Once she'd introduced herself, the man whispered to her, "Get in there, familiarize yourself with the ship, and check our load weight. We're almost full and there are still a couple hundred people out here. We can't take even nearly all of them, and I'm concerned about violence from those we'll have to leave behind. Get a blaster out of the tool equipment locker, on a hook, on the right, just in case. We can't rescue everyone, but we're not going to let somebody stop us from rescuing as many as we can."

Looking back at the pressing crowd, he called, "Hold on, folks! We're getting organized to make sure we can get out of here shortly."

"Go!" he mouthed to her as he called the next person forward.

~BSG~

Thus, Deitra sat in the dusty co-pilot's seat looking at the mishmash of ancient gauges all-the-while trying to find the load weight readouts for the rickety shuttlecraft. It wasn't in the spot corresponding to that on modern shuttles, and it didn't seem to be anywhere near it, so she continued her search, row by row of the gauges.

As she did this, she was wondering about the ship and Acticus, the man outside. Who was he and why would he have such an apparent derelict?

When she finally found something that she thought might be it, the flip-down readout was stuck at 000:00. Frustrated, she thumped the gauge a couple of times without getting a reaction from it before noticing a dial gauge right below that was pointing to about 97%. Shaking her head, she rose from the seat and made her way back through the crowd to the exterior door.

"What did it say?"

After confirming that she had indeed been looking at the correct gauge, she gave Acticus the reading. He thought for a few moments before nodding. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a control that he used to cause the large doors to swing open. Then he turned to the crowd.

"Listen up, folks! This shuttle's almost full. I'll be able to take ten more people and then we're going to have to close the door. I'll come back to pick up more of you if I can, but I don't know the circumstances or if we'll be able to do that, so I'd advise you to go find another ship."

There were cries of anguish as people learned they would be left behind. Some, seeing the crowd in front of them, understood the situation and turned away to go seek another ride, but some up front were angry. Fights broke out between several people near the front over the order in the line. Every position closer to the front of the line was precious.

"Remain calm, people! Pushing and fighting isn't going to help you or the situation!"

It was then that a large man some places back in the line shoved several people out of his way and pushed forward. "Listen, I'm a government official. I _have_ to be on this ship."

"Mister, I don't care if you're one of the Lords of Kobol, you'll get on this ship when it's your turn and not a person or a micron before. Now, go back there and help those people up that you bowled over and apologize to them."

The self-identified official, red-faced, turned as if to go, but he suddenly pulled a knife and thrust it at Acticus, saying, "You've got to let me aboard!"

Whether it was intentional or just because he was unskilled with the knife, the man's eyes widened as he saw that he'd stabbed Acticus, who grabbed his side as he started slumping toward the warehouse floor. He was shaking his head in disbelief as someone behind him shouted, "He killed the pilot!"

The man stepped over the wounded man and started up the ramp, ready to push Deitra out of the way, but her blaster was out in a flash and she fired, hitting him square in the chest. Despite his size, he dropped to the ground, unmoving.

"Did you kill him?" asked a boy near the front of the line.

"No. I had the blaster set on a reduced charge for stunning," she said. "He'll have a horrible headache when he wakes up."

Dropping to her knees beside Acticus, she asked, "Are you okay?"

"I've had far better cycles," replied the man between labored breaths. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small device with several wires dangling from it. "Hook up, color to color. She'll start. Hasn't flown in yahrens but she should. Now, have someone bind me up and dump me in the back, and you take over. Ten more people. That's it or we won't get off the ground. That gauge doesn't read exactly..."

The man passed out.

~BSG~

With her hands raised to quieten the crowd, she called out, "Everyone! Quiet!" Pointing to people, she called out. "One, two, three, four. You four, get Acticus aboard the ship and find a place. Now, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I'm sorry but that's all the room we have."

A woman, Number Ten, cried out, "My son and daughter! They're right behind me! Please!" even as many others in line cried out in anger or fear despite having been warned about lack of room just centons earlier.

Her heart racing, Deitra didn't know what to do. Too much weight and the ship wouldn't be able to take off; based on the neighborhood outside, none of them would live. On the other hand, if she said no, she wouldn't be able to live with herself. She waved all three forward.

Some of the crowd was starting to press forward. She held up her hands for them to stop and get back, but some were continuing forward. Others were shouting out or crying.

"Listen!" she cried out above their voices. When that didn't work, she pulled out the blaster, flipped the setting to full, and fired into the collapsed debris across the warehouse. That got their attention.

"I know you're scared and angry," she called out. "I am, too, but this isn't helping. First, I don't even know if this ship is going to start, and if it does, if it will fly. If it does, I also don't know if it will be able to come back for more of you once I get these folks to safety. Therefore, for your own safety, I advise everyone to get out of here before the ship blows up or the rest of this building collapses on you as we try to take off in it. There should be other shuttles out there, so don't risk your lives by staying here. Please, go!"

Some of the people started turning away, but a few others just stood looking as if they were in a daze, unsure about what to do or where to go, not knowing where safety might be found.

Deitra looked at them and thought about her friends, hoping once more that they'd found safety. Saying a little prayer for friends, those in the dispersing crowd, and all the others who might be left behind, she whispered, "May the Lords be with you and keep you safe."

Turning, she went up the ramp and activated the control to close the hatch.

In the ship, Deitra saw a mass of humanity that reminded her of the situation in the plaza some centars earlier. Many were sitting on the floor, holding their family members or friends close. Their few possessions were stowed in the hold to maximize space in the cabin. With the hatch having closed, most of the group became quieter, looking to Deitra for leadership and safety, while others continued talking or crying.

Moving forward, she found a woman bent over the wounded Acticus, trying to bind his wounds.

"Is he awake?" Deitra asked. "Is he going to be okay?"

"No. And I don't know. I'm not a med tech.." The woman trailed off, not wanting to say what she was thinking.

Deitra understood. "Keep...keep him as comfortable as you can. That's all we can do."

She moved forward to the cockpit area and, once again, looked at the mess in front of her. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the small electronic device the man had given her and proceeded to try to hook it up to the wires in the starter slot.

A few centons later, she turned the switch and hit the starter for Engine One.

~BSG~

When the shuttle came to a stop in the _Galactica_ 's landing bay, Deitra flipped the switches to kill the engines and then unbuckled her safety harness. She couldn't believe they'd made it. Most of the flight had been by the proverbial seat of her pants rather than by instruments. A couple of the gauges had been reading near a narrow red zone, and a couple of others seemed to quit working in mid-flight. The matchstick needle had fluttered in its housing throughout the flight, seemingly without purpose. That didn't surprise her though. She still didn't know the purpose of many of the other gauges either.

Deitra slowly rose from the pilot's seat. Her legs were stiff from sitting in the uncomfortable chair and her arms from struggling with the controls on takeoff and landing. She stretched and then fought off a yawn.

It was slow at first but swelled quickly. When she looked back into the cabin, the passengers were looking in her direction and clapping. One stood, and then others that could did the same as they continued to clap. A boy—little Number Twelve, she realized—came forward and threw his arms around her legs, giving a quick hug before darting back toward his mother, who was fighting back tears as she clung to his siblings. As he went back, he almost tripped over Acticus, who, awake once more, was nodding and, with a still pained expression, smiling to her.

She knelt down beside him and took his hand. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm not as young as I used to be, but," he said, "if you could get this old hunk of junk to fly all the way out here, I think I can live through almost anything."

"What do you mean? Hunk of junk?" she asked, surprised that he would call it that. "I know it looked pretty rough, but you didn't think we'd make it?"

"Let's say that I had my doubts. It's my ship, but it hadn't actually flown anywhere since my grandfather took me for a flight about fifty yahrens ago. It's been in our family for twenty—or possibly twenty-five, depending on who tells the story—generations and we've been restoring it, bit by bit, as we have the cubits and can find the parts. We've kept the registration up to date so it could fly again when the restoration was complete, but I'd given up hope on that every happening since I don't have any children to pass it to."

A med tech arrived at that point and took over, taking Acticus to the Life Center, so Deitra, after waving goodbye to him, worked her way out of the shuttle and stepped into the _Galactica_ 's landing bay.

The place looked like a disaster with shuttles of all types crowded into the space, pushed as close together as possible to make room for more arrivals by the centon. Deitra wasn't sure what she was seeing but, after a stop at the turboflush, she got in a reception line as instructed and did a slow shuffle forward until she finally reached one of a lineup of tables.

"Name and occupation?" asked one of the uniformed women seated at the tables.

"Deitra, Lieutenant, Second Class, from the Battlestar _Atlantia_. Shuttle pilot. I'm on separation furlon and will be retired in less than a secton."

"Sorry about the _Atlantia_ ; you were lucky you weren't aboard. And I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this but all leaves are cancelled and all reserves are recalled for immediate duty. I'm not sure but I don't think you'll be retiring anytime soon. Since you're already active duty, I'm going to have to check the system to see where you're needed before I can give you an assignment. Step right over there and I'll get back with you soon."

Although the news wasn't completely unexpected considering what she'd seen, Deitra still felt a little disappointed that all of her much-hoped for plans were now gone. Trying to put everything out of her mind, she stepped to the side where she'd been instructed and waited.

She'd barely sat down on the deck and closed her eyes when someone approached and asked, "Are you the pilot who brought in the ancient 449 shuttle?"

"449? I don't know that model."

"Neither did I until I looked it up in the database. That one, over there," he said, pointing.

She stood up and looked where he was indicating. "Yeah, I flew that one since the owner was wounded."

"Well, I just wanted to let you know that we've got it marked for retirement. There aren't any parts for it, its power banks are dead, and we can't even get it started to move it out of the way. We'll recycle what we can."

Deitra nodded as she looked across at the old ship. "I understand. I don't know how, but it got us here."

"Lieutenant Deitra?" called the woman from the table. "I've found an assignment for you."

Glancing back at the old ship one last time before receiving her new orders, Deitra said, "Well, at least one of us gets to retire."

 _The End_

* * *

 ** _Author's Notes:_**

 _Thanks for reading this Battlestar Galactica story and the other stories in my series. Please let me know your thoughts on the story and the series._

 _Deitra, played by Sheila DeWindt (Wills), became a full-fledged Colonial Warrior a short time later in "Lost Planet of the Gods," the first episode after the pilot movie. While she had no backstory on the show, according to the Battlestar Wiki, a version of the "Lost Planet of the Gods" script stated that Deitra was a shuttle pilot from the Battlestar Atlantia. Since that ship was one of the first to be lost, it is unlikely that Deitra would have survived unless she had left the ship before it went to the so-called Peace Conference._

 _Finally, the prompt for this story was: "_ _A character must accept a ride in a vehicle of a type appropriate for your fandom from someone they don't know well. Describe the reason for the character accepting the ride, the ride itself, and the vehicle, particularly its interior. Instead of naming or generalizing about your character's feelings, focus on the details and let them reveal the character's emotional state, comfort level, and even reason for accepting the ride in the first place. Let the details tell us whether the vehicle is luxurious, pristine, a mess, etc., or whether it is safe or dangerous, if applicable. You're the author and so may know the future. Will the character's impressions of the owner, based on the vehicle's condition, prove accurate?"_


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